


I'm Dreaming of a Dead Christmas

by Thette



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Canonical Character Death, Christmas, Christmas mass of the dead, Family Feels, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Hanukkah, Hopeful Ending, Horror, Jewish Leonard Snart, M/M, Post-Oculus (DC's Legends of Tomorrow)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 02:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17133662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thette/pseuds/Thette
Summary: Desperate to have Leonard Snart back, Mick Rory's goes back to his childhood church for the Christmas Mass of the Dead. That's not the ghost he finds there, though.





	I'm Dreaming of a Dead Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SophiaCatherine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaCatherine/gifts).



> Written for SophiaCatherine as a Christmas present, and for the Coldwave Winter Week day 7, Christmas/Chanukah/Winter Holiday. It's also barely an Oculus fix, which is the other theme for the day. 
> 
> Extras included:  
> 1\. Terrible festive sweaters  
> 13\. Bows/ribbons  
> 29\. Hypothermia  
> 33\. Family gathering  
> 36\. Seasonal myths  
> 38\. Candles/incense

Silent night, his ass. Mick nursed his single beer, the only one he allowed himself tonight, and looked out over the assorted scruffy rabble gathered in Saints and Sinners, all of them alone with their drink. The bar was a welcome refuge from the Christmas cheer, but something wasn't right.

He knew exactly what wasn't right. There wasn't a jerk sitting next to him making sarcastic comments in a slow drawl.

Blondie had decided they'd all go home for Christmas (or Chanukkah, for the Professor), and nobody expected him to be anywhere until well after New Year's. Barring alien invasions or time breaking again, he had a whole week off.

He was miserable. And lonely. The last time he met Lisa, he delivered the news her brother had died. He still remembered planning to kill her, over and over again, and shuddered. No, Lisa wasn't an option. He loved her, but he would only hurt her even more. No, he was on his own for this. Didn't trust, much less like, any of their old acquaintances. Wasn't hero enough to crash Team Flash's party. No family left, no reason to go back.

Unless…

He remembered an old story his mother used to tell him. It was a fairy tale. A ghost story. It wasn't true, couldn't be. But he couldn't stop himself from checking it out anyway.

Shrugging on his black leather jacket, he left the half-drunken glass on the table and went to steal a bike.

***

The town, a good twenty miles outside of Keystone, was so small, there was only one church. It rose on a hill above the fields of wheat, fields that were now dry and brown in the winter. One spire, and a rectangular silhouette against the horizon, backlit by some pretty big spotlights. Fancy. They'd installed them sometime after he'd left. Mick parked the bike behind a hedge, and waited for the Catholics to finish up Midnight Mass.

The church slowly emptied. People in their finest church clothes slowly walked out into the night, hugging and shaking hands, catching up with their neighbours. Many of them carried burning torches as they walked towards the farms and villages close by. Mick approved. Others left by car, and some fancy fuckers rode carriages, outfitted with bells and lanterns. Mick scoffed.

Once the priest and deacon had shaken hands with the last parishioners, they locked both the wide front doors and the small back door to the vestry. Mick checked his watch. 1.30 AM. He had three hours before the Lutherans would come in to prepare for the early morning service.

It took him fifteen seconds to pick the lock, a relic from when the church was built in the nineteenth century. He scoffed, hoping they were more careful with the altar silver. The scent of incense was overwhelming. _Mom, what's that smell? he had asked, when he was five, at the first Midnight Mass he'd been allowed to attend, and she had told him the story of the three wise men and their gifts._ Those were not the memories he'd come here to chase, though. He lighted one single candle in the votive candle holder, thinking about blue-green eyes and a wicked smirk.

The flame danced before him, captivating, promising a simple answer to all his worries. _Just burn it all down_ , it said. _Let the whole world burn and walk through the ashes._

He forced himself to leave, to sit in the back of the pews and wait.

"Mickey," a girl's voice whispered in his ear. He must have fallen asleep, because he didn't see her coming in. With a shake of his head, he forced himself awake. The church was nearly full now, and he'd missed them all coming in. He'd missed his chance to see Snart.

"Mickey!" She was louder this time, and he turned to see if it really was her. Beside him sat a seven-year-old girl in her finest green dress with white lace, her red hair tied back with a wide ribbon. She was just as pale as she had been when he found her in her room, choked to death by carbon monoxide long before the flames could catch her.

"Mallaidh," he breathed. "My sweet Mallaidh."

She rested a cold hand on his. "You're so big now, Mickey. I've waited for you."

"Michael Richard Rory!"

The tone of the other voice made him wince. It's been over thirty years, and she still could make him feel like a little boy, just by using his full name like that.

"Michael Richard Rory, what are you doing here?"

He didn't want to turn, didn't want to see her, but something forced him. On his other side, his mother clenched a skeletal hand around his. The first thing he saw was the black dress, so much tidier than the ones she'd worn when she was alive.

"Don't make me do this," he begged, but something in the force holding him hostage didn't let him avoid her eyes. He could feel tears welling up, watching her charred face with skin and muscles halfway to falling off her cheeks. She smiled, a terrifying sight, her bones peeking through at the edges of her grin.

"You always were too nosy for your own good," she said, her voice impossibly soft. "Why did you come, my living son?"

"Mom," he said, his voice breaking. "Mom, I love him, and he died. He died when I should have died." He paused, waiting for his mom to scold him, but she just looked at him with ghostly eyes. "He died, and I miss him so much."

Her eyes glowed an eerie blue-green, like the time stream and the Oculus at once. "He is not here. He found no rest," she intoned, her voice echoing like a thousand people speaking at once. The lights flickered, the flames of the candles grew high and then drew back again, and the whole church glowed blue. "Now, hush," his mothered whispered. "Be quiet if you want to live."

A ghostly priest stood in front of the altar, and the congregation of ghosts started singing. It was an otherworldly version of the usual Mass, slightly out of tune and in the wrong tempo. Chills crept up Mick's spine, leaving him shivering. Was it really cold in here, or was it just him? He was fixed to his spot, his body refusing to let him leave. One hand held Mallaidh's, and one hand his mother's.

None of them would be here if it wasn't for him. The Rory farm, three miles from here, went down in flames because of him. His parents, his sister, three farmhands, fifty cows and two bulls, eighty-five pigs, three hundred-ish chickens, and one mean old goat, all dead because he couldn't lift his eyes from the fire. He wondered if hell was as cold as this church, if that was where he'd be dragged afterwards.

"You need to leave," his mother whispered, as the priest lifted his hands for a ghostly blessing. "Leave now, and never come back."

He wanted to leave, wanted to go look for Snart somewhere else. But if what his mother said was true, this was his only chance to meet them. "Mom, I love you. I don't wanna go…" He sounded like a child to his own ears.

"Go home, Micky," said Mallaidh. "Go back to the living."

He ruffled her hair, his hand getting tangled in the ribbon. The gray ghosts around them started moving, started looking his way, and they were not happy about him being there. Some of them showed their sharp teeth, others their long, claw-like fingernails. They were milling around, unpredictably, but heading his way.

"Run, Micky, run," Mallaidh shouted, and he did. One ghost, a lady in historical clothing, with a feathered hat pinned to her hair, grabbed his arm. Her hand was cold, so cold. He could feel his whole body slowing down. The chill spread, through his arm, to his fingers, now numb.

His mother's cold hand slapped his face, shaking him loose from the lady ghost's grip.

He ran for his life, knowing for sure they'd drag him back to the afterlife with them if they got hold of him again. The heat gun slapped against his thigh in its holster, and he wanted to burn something.

When he reached the hedges around the church, he dared to look back. The ghosts were pouring out of the church in a gray mass, heads and bodies and arms vaguely forming a cloud. His mother and sister were part of that mass, snarling and writhing like the rest of them, no longer able to protect him.

It broke his heart, but he had to do it. With a cry of anguish, he raised the gun and set fire to the hedge. The ghosts that were closest to him also caught fire, but he couldn't wait to see if his family had made it. He straddled the bike, started it, and drove away without looking back.

***

His heart was still beating twice as fast as normal, his breath coming in terrified pants. He'd think it was all a nightmare, if it wasn't for the ribbon wound around his hand, the ribbon his sister had been buried with.

He didn't stop until he reached Central City, driving to the city's Jewish cemetery. This place looked much less haunted than the church. He followed the winding pathways among the trees until he reached his goal.

The headstone was plain. A name, two dates, and a Star of David. Mick traced the name with his fingertips.

"Shoulda known I wouldn't find you in a church." He squatted down by the grave. "Can you blame me for trying, though? I'd do anything to get you back."

The wind in the trees did not provide him with any answers in particular.

"Snart, you were the best man I'd ever known. A bastard, for sure, wouldn't have it any other way. Sarcastic little fuck, just how I liked you. Why'd you have to go an' be a hero?"

"Because he loved you, too," said a quiet voice from the shadows.

Mick was too proud to admit, even to himself, that he squeaked and jumped in surprise. When he'd managed to collect himself, he turned around, heat gun in hand. What he saw was as far from a threat as it could possibly be. The Professor, alone, in an ugly Chanukkah sweater, his arms wrapped around his body.

"Professor. Shouldn't you be home lighting candles with the family?"

"Sure," he said with a sad smile, "but I have family here, too. I wanted to visit them, now that I'm in town. And then, I came to see my friend."

It took Mick a few seconds to realize he meant Snart. "Really?"

"Really," the Professor replied, putting a small pebble on Snart's grave. Oh, yeah, that was a thing. Mick dug through his pockets, finding a sapphire the size of a golf ball, and put it next to the pebble. It wobbled, but eventually found a resting position. The moonlight glowed blue through the facets, reminding Mick of Snart's eyes. Next time, he'd bring an opal. The sapphire blue was missing specks of green.

"Come on," the Professor said. "I'm sure you're cold. We've got more latkes to fry at home."

Mick followed. He needed to not be alone tonight. Or, well, in the morning. "Professor, tell me, what happens if a spirit can't find his rest?"

"Is this still about Snart?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told ya…"

"After everything? I find it hard to think of anything I wouldn't believe, Mr Rory. Do tell."

Mick took a deep breath, and started telling the story as they walked.

None of them saw the headstone glowing with a blue-green light, a beacon in the night, time stream blue and Oculus green.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place mid-season 2, in 2016, when Chanukkah started on Dec 24th. 
> 
> Where I grew up, the Catholic congregation used to borrow the Lutheran church for their services, so it's not that far-fetched to have them share.
> 
> Mallaidh is the Irish version of the name Molly.


End file.
